


Catch Me at the Triple Flip

by esutonia



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, F/F, Film Noir, Historical References, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prohibition, Tags May Change, Violence, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-10-21 23:37:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10685244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esutonia/pseuds/esutonia
Summary: Like all good romance, it starts in the speakeasy.The mob boss's protégé, Victor Nikiforov runs an illegal juice joint and lives to forget. He runs through Chicago, chased by the French battlefields he once bled in, drinking until the sun rises and getting lost in jazz numbers. Engaging in an ill-fated romance with Yuuri Katsuki, a rival gang member and press informant, is just one of many bad decisions on his part. Falling in love means splitting their priorities, caught between protecting the ones they love and escaping their pasts.Rival gangs move closer to the boiling point of a new urban war. The Roaring Twenties open their black maw and threaten to swallow both of them whole—the antebellum is just the beginning.A storm is brewing in Chicago tonight.





	1. Speakeasy

**Author's Note:**

> It begins! I had the idea for this fic while I was writing the last one, actually, but it took me a while to revise this chapter. Be aware that this is an alternate universe-Chicago, so no Al Capone, no Chicago Outfit, no Irish Mob, etc. It's all about YOI and their groups. I did consider setting this in Detroit, but the Windy City calls! Too late now. Tags are subject to change...I feel that adding all the tags right now would spoil the plot. 
> 
> Buckle up, kids. It's gonna be a wild ride.

Victor needs a drink.

He  _really_ needs a drink.

It’s only 8:30 in the morning. Maybe he needs to find a different line of work.

 _I don't think there are any books called “How to Quit the Mobster Life"_ , he thinks wryly.

He stifles a yawn, dry eyes adjusting to the yellow sunlight. While he’d love to get a few more hours of well-deserved shuteye, just the threat of Yakov sending him to the trenches is enough to make any man quake in his boots. And while he’s just ballsy enough to give Yakov lip, that’d require a level of energy he lacks on this Monday morning.

Sitting up, he throws off the bedsheets and grimaces at the sudden cold. He wishes Yakov would hurry up and make peace with the Irish mob. Then he’d have his damn Bailey’s for his damn Irish coffee. That’d make his mornings a helluva lot more tolerable. That, or he could just turn off the stupid sun.

But for now, he settles with the daily grind, wrestling with his bowtie and straightening his jacket lapels in front of the mirror. Makkachin looks up at him adoringly before dashing to the adjacent room, searching for his food bowl. Unlike his kid brother, Makkachin never harped at Victor for being a “vain dandy” or a “damned politician” during his morning routine, bless his heart. Victor misses those hours of sleep that he’ll never get back, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy shaving in peace.

His polished Oxfords creak on the wooden stairwell, paying no mind to grace or common decency in general. Makkachin’s paws scratch down the stairs behind him, cheerful as always. A bit too cheerful, in Victor’s opinion. It’s ridiculous to do neighborhood rounds this early, and Yakov knows it. He’s probably doing it just to make Victor squirm. _It’ll teach you discipline,_ he’d say. Victor snorts. _Only a cap to the cranium would discipline me,_ he’d reply.

Streaming through gauzy blinds, warm sunlight washes the whole house. It gives a comfortable glow to the otherwise-Spartan interior. The brownstone is completely silent, save for Makkachin’s snuffles as he searches the kitchen for God-knows-what, probably stray dumplings ( _like that’s ever going to happen again_ , he thinks). Victor watches him fondly. Makkachin’s not too smart, but he’s one cute poodle pup.

Victor parts the curtains next to the front door, searching for the car. Alexei’s late, but it’s hardly unusual. Traffic’s hell, in this part of Chicago. He grabs an apple from the kitchen as he waits.

A shiny black Oldsmobile slides up to the curb, honking its horn twice. Victor grabs his cap off the hook as he steps outside, making sure the door locks behind him. He glances up the sidewalk, then down: an old habit, ingrained from years of vigilance. A few guys in suits wander the street, cars milling about. Nothing special, so far. He opens the car’s back door for Makkachin first, letting the dog hop in while he slides into the passenger side.

“доброе утро, Alexei,” Victor says, shutting the car door.

“Доброе, sir,” he replies. “Morning rounds?” He says, in a thick Russian accent.

“You know it.”

The Oldsmobile pulls into traffic, the engine purring steadily. Victor watches the familiar houses slide by, one after the other, each one as boring as the rest. He knows it’s best to keep a low profile, but it doesn’t stop the bite of envy in his mouth whenever they pass through the affluent neighborhoods. They’ve got money, dammit, so why should they live like they don’t? He tugs the brim of his cap down his face. A cool spring breeze ruffles his hair, and when he cranes his neck he can see Makkachin leaning off the car’s side, floppy tongue and squinty eyes. The sight makes him snort in amusement; he would take a picture, if he had a camera.

* * *

 They pass by the slums, dirty-faced children tearing through the streets, screaming in Russian as their mothers hang laundry lines from the windows. Victor waves to their tired faces as the car clunks to a stop. Keeping his hat low, he quickly steps out of the car and heads into a decrepit apartment complex, signaling the driver to go. If the fancy car and Lenin cap haven’t already given him away, his being in a Russian neighborhood certainly marks him as a Carabosse member. He traipses up the stairs, which creak even louder than the ones at home. Makkachin trails after him loyally.

Why he makes daily trips to a shabby neighborhood to communicate with shady folks is beyond him. It’s a security meeting, a formality like every other. It’s all a bore. Even growing up in the Carabosse racketeering business, Victor’s never had much of an interest in salesmanship and strategy. He's twenty-seven, and in 1923, that's a miracle in itself.

But here he is, using his lucky life to sit in smoke-filled apartments, listening to a bunch of old mobsters drone on about profit margins and money laundering.

It's exhausting, having to act his age.

* * *

 By the time he leaves that shoddy neighborhood, it’s past noon. The crisp spring air is blissfully cool, ruffling the jackets of errand boys on their bikes and sweeping stray newspapers about. Chicago is at peace for the moment, but it doesn't reassure the nagging sense of dread in his gut.

He walks with Makkachin, making rounds and killing time. Yakov might object, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. He rides the six blocks to security briefings every morning, just to get Yakov off his back, then takes his sweet time enjoying the city. What’s not to love?

They pass by the 24-hour corner stores, operated by Russian friendlies and dealing in cigarettes, bubble gum and vodka (depending on who you ask). Victor schools his expression, staring into the filthy windows as if daring them to skip out on paying tribute. It's kind of funny to see the shopkeepers stiffen up, straightening their backs like soldiers. Six years after the war, and they're still learning to cope. (“Not unlike me,” he mutters.)

Passing by the financial district, they ride the western border between Russian and Italian turf. The buffer zone’s getting smaller, Victor notes. The Crispinos have become more ambitious than ever, at the expense of Victor’s people.

He doesn't know why the Carabosse has to fight for its ground. They were all, at one point, outsiders. Didn't they all come to America for a better life, as tired, huddled masses? Sometimes, looking back at his childhood in St. Petersburg and where he is now, it's difficult to tell when life was better. Sure, the money is amazing, but there's always an aura of suspicion here that never followed him in Russia. _Nothing good could ever come of this_ , he thinks grimly. _If we lose a battle, we’ll lose everything. If we win, then what? Another war, with another business._ Perhaps the Carabosse used to care about family. Perhaps the Crispino Family, the Hasetsu Branch, and even the cops cared about family as well. But it's never been anything but business for a very long time. This tension? It's all business.

They're not enemies  _now_ , but Victor knows that summer makes for sticky collars and midnight fistfights. It ain't a good time for a turf war; but then again, is there ever a good time?

* * *

 The setting sun casts a rosy glow over the skylines when he gets back home, having glided through the day in an apathetic breeze. He spends so much of his time wandering around that it’s hard to remember if any of it was worthwhile. Pins and bolts slide back one by one as the front door clicks open. He feeds Makkachin, leaving him to stick his nose in the food bowl, and hustles upstairs. The steps complain squeakily as his shoes venture up. “Fuck stairs,” he grumbles.

Formal wear has always been a favorite of his; like gold wrapping paper for shitty presents. At night he trades his day suits for starched-collar shirts, waistcoats and fitted jackets, and it makes him feel like the clean, orderly, got-his-shit-together person that patrons expect him to be. It’s not entirely unlike a play at the theater: he entertains others’ fantasies, and drops them when he’s alone.

He wishes he was alone more often.

* * *

 Every night, he goes down to a diner nestled between a credit union and an upper-class barbershop. It’s a ritzy place, by Chicago standards; the monthly rent alone costs more than what Mila pays the beat cops every quarter. The Triple Flip is a damn good investment, though. Its clean red brick exterior makes it stand out from its neighbors, warm yellow bulbs beckoning through the shiny glass. The perfect spot for late-night swingers and off-duty cops, and Victor’s pride and joy. He practically runs the place himself, with the help of a few trusted employees and distributors that he met through the grapevine.

The doorbell chimes merrily as he sidles in. The boy wiping down the lunch counter lifts his head in greeting, sees Victor, then scowls as he turns away. Victor ruffles the kid’s blond hair as he passes by. Yuri jumps indignantly, like a cat sprayed with a garden hose.

“Quit fucking up my hair, jerk,” he snaps.

Victor throws his arm up, giving Yuri a half-assed salute. He looks ridiculous here in his in his white gloves and waistcoat, and Yuri tells him so as he walks deeper into the shop.

The diner is deserted, but Victor isn’t bothered. They’ll all flock here soon enough. Light from the storefront recedes as he turns down a short and narrow hallway. A burly employee sits before an enclave, beyond which is a door marked “PRIVATE”.

“Evening, Vanya,” Victor says. Vanya rises, nodding to Victor and opening the door. Victor descends the dark stairwell, hearing the door shut behind him.

* * *

 The only things he doesn’t like about the Triple Flip, he thinks, are the stairs. Too many stairs make him feel trapped, claustrophobic. Too much like the trenches.

Light emanates from below, and the upbeat music gets louder the farther down he goes. The party’s in full swing; the patrons much prefer to drink at night. He can feel the vibrations from the dancing and brassy jazz numbers through the floor. All of it would bring a weaker building to the ground. A cacophony of whoops and cheers erupts as Victor pushes open the door at stairs’ end; Christophe must be performing, he muses.

The crowd roars around Victor as he nudges past tables of businessmen smoking cigars and flapper girls draped over dapper boys. He winces, thinking about the pints of alcohol that will be all over the floor by morning. There’s so much smoke in the air that the building could catch fire and no one would notice. He doesn’t remember when he started caring about these things. _Perhaps it was the war_. Everything seemed to be the war’s fault, these days.

The bartender nods at him with a knowing smile as Victor slides into a chair. “The usual, Victor?” He asks.

“A Manhattan tonight, Georgi. Let’s keep it interesting.”

“Sure thing.”

He sips the cocktail gratefully, waiting for the rush of intoxication that he’s waited for all day. The speakeasy’s booming, more alive than Victor’s felt in a long time. Drinking at the speakeasy is as much a routine as any other—drink, scan crowd, drink, repeat. He knows the face of every regular customer, every fashionable jazz song, every one of Christophe’s (admittedly impressive) cabaret dance moves. Victor knows how long he’s done this for. And while the clientele is questionable at best, it still beats the vanity and underhanded maneuvering upstairs that he deals with daily.

It’s why he hates going out for business; a couple hours of drinking with people he can’t stand, pretending that everyone at the table doesn’t secretly wish he was dead. What he loved, during the Great War, was the camaraderie. Not a trace of ulterior motives or sleight-of-hand motion; just constant fear of death and a shared sense of impending doom. Diplomacy couldn’t get any less subtle than a shell to the head.

Victor is tired. Of deception, of loneliness, of being haunted by memories. Every day, every month, every year of his life. He waits to get lost, ends up drunk as a skunk by midnight, and wakes up with a splitting headache and an itch to do it all over again. Living was gray and meaningless as it was; he could get gunned down in the street, keel over from an aneurysm or fall off a ten-story balcony and he wouldn't have a care in the world. France left an oddly-shaped hole in him, and while nothing quite fits right, the alcohol and parties patch it up for just a little while. He wishes that he had that same happiness in the daytime. The Triple Flip is where life gets color back in its cheeks.

* * *

 A wispy figure settles on the chair beside him. “Hello, stranger,” she says. She bats her eyes playfully; he stuffs his apathy into a box, shelves it in the back of his brain.

Victor looks her up and down and plays along. “Evening, Miss Mila. Ain't you a bit young to be hanging around these parts?”

She turns away shyly, tucking her head into her shoulder in the way that makes all the boys go mad. “Maybe?” she flirts. The curls in hair don’t budge at all. It’s pretty impressive. Without being asked, Georgi slides a gin and tonic towards Mila, which she accepts with a smile.

“Thought you were supposed to be at the security group meeting today,” Victor says, watching her sip her drink.

“Got caught up in something,” she replies dismissively. Victor grins devilishly.

“Was there a _girl_?”

She sputters, blushing. Victor hides his triumphant smirk behind his hand. Huffing at him in mock irritation, she downs another gulp of the drink. “It was none of your business, that’s what it was.”

“Fine, fine. But if Yakov ever finds out that his favorite bookkeeper was playing hooky for a date, he won’t be happy…”

“Ugh, I regret talking to you.”

“Me too.”

She twists in her chair to look him in the eye, expression serious. “But really, could you do me a favor and not, you know, mention this to him?”

Victor tilts his head pensively, tapping his chin. “Well, there’s this lovely little lounge I’ve had my eye on for a while, and some money you could help me launder—”

Mila elbows him in the shoulder.

“Okay, okay!” He raises his hands in defeat. “He’ll never hear about it from me. You know I’d do it for you anyway, right?”

She snorts into her glass. “I know. Doesn’t mean you wouldn’t be an ass about it, though.”

“You know how much I love busting your chops.” Truth be told, he still finds it strange sitting next to Mila in a dark speakeasy, all gussied up in a little black dress and fancy chandelier earrings. She was always the scrappy girl that he left behind when he went to France. Like Yuri, she’s a kid from the streets that got taken in by the mob, and as good as family. How the time flies.

The audience erupts into whoops and cheers as the song ends. The band begins belting out a bubbly, upbeat jazz number with a quick pulse. Mila finishes off her drink with one last draught, hopping off the bar stool and grabbing Victor by the arm. “Dance with me,” she says. And he obliges.

* * *

 She pulls Victor out to the crowded floor and takes his hand, easing him into the dance. He looks up at the stage, feeling the stamp of the dancers’ feet on the stage vibrating through the floor. Probably half-blind from the spotlights, Christophe leads the girls with gusto, hopping like a firecracker in his embellished suit. Victor wolf-whistles; Chris looks down at him and winks.

He spins Mila round and her dress flares out as she pirouettes. Exhilaration rushes through his veins, no doubt fueled by alcohol and opium and cocaine and God-knows-what-else. Stage light bathes them in a golden haze and he feels his heartbeat matching the song’s pace. Trumpets and piano clash, bass rolling upwards sharply. A familiar scene, and he knows how it usually ends.

Victor knows everyone who frequents the bar. They bring friends, acquaintances, family and the occasional honey. He sees their faces on the dance floor, on the stage, at the tables. Mila shrieks with laughter as Victor tips her back and pulls her up again, but he watches the crowd. They all seem so far away, like looking through the wrong end of a spyglass. The pansies in drag are ostentatious as always, twittering like birds in their sequined dresses as they finger colorful cocktails. Fairy-like flappers flirt with statuesque women in tailcoats and top hats. Police Commissioner Edwards shares a booth with Senator Goulding, both laughing uproariously and puffing cigars wider than quarters. Victor comes here so often that there’s rarely a face he doesn’t recognize, but maybe there’s—hold on—

The world spins when Mila twirls him around and their hands come together with perfect synchrony. Flashing her a brief smile, he chances another glimpse over her shoulder. A new group of guys at the corner. Hmm. He’ll have to ask around later to find out where they got the password. Meanwhile, the music rises to a fever pitch, a wobbly and dramatic cadence topping it off. He turns his attention back to the stage and claps with the rest of them, breathless and alive. Already he feels the euphoria melting, the spell wearing off. _More_ , he demands.

* * *

 At the corner of the room, a group of men watch Victor with interest.

“That’s him, huh? Can’t say I’m surprised….” Phichit hurriedly flips to a new page of his notebook and begins scribbling, hunched over in the poorly-lit booth with his hat shielding his face. “Now, if only I had a photo—”

“Won’t be difficult,” Seung-Gil dismisses. “He goes all over town. We only need one.” A miasma of cigarette smoke clouds his face. He tilts his head towards Otabek. “You sure you can get close to them?”

“Already got a connection. Now it’s just time to milk it for all it’s worth.” Otabek stretches out in the booth, martini in hand. “An interesting character, this Victor guy is. This story better win us a Pulitzer, for all the trouble we’re going to.”

“Yeah, he’s interesting for sure,” Phichit says absently. Yuuri watches him draw a messy fringe over a terrible sketch of Victor’s profile.

“He’s probably loaded, too,” Seung-Gil adds.

Yuuri catches the glint of spotlights outlining Victor’s face, turning his silver hair white and surrounding him in a glowing aura. It’s impossible to look away. It’s also impossible not to notice the wistfulness in his eyes, an unmistakable fatigue. “He’s...” _sad, and beautiful_ , he thinks. “An easy target,” he says.

“Let’s wait until the timing’s right,” Otabek says.

* * *

 But it starts in the speakeasy, as many illicit affairs do. A little wander of the eye, a look that lasts a little too long. Victor is intrigued, and all-around enraptured.

It’s after his third (or fourth? Seventh?) drink that he notices a pair of eyes, watching him. Watching him—not Christophe’s routine, not the band, not Georgi the bartender. A young Japanese guy, unfamiliar to him, sitting at the table in the corner surrounded by an interesting group of friends. Brown eyes framed by a pair of square spectacles, staring at Victor as though he wasn’t looking at a mob boss’ kid.

It’s kind of cute, Victor thinks childishly.

Victor smirks, meeting the man’s gaze. _Enjoying the view?_

The man in the corner smiles; a pretty, coy thing. Doll-like, even. But Victor reads faces for a living, and he sees danger in that smile. He’s definitely flirting. The speakeasy is dim, probably twenty different kinds of diseased, and hazy with Norwegian pipe smoke and opium. But that smile he’s giving him, a sharp-edged thing that could slice him six ways to Sunday, is so seductive it should be illegal. At least, no more legal than the Manhattan in Victor’s hand and the pansy in his buttonhole.

He feels a bit light-headed, but not from the drink.

That is, until a large hand claps Victor on the shoulder and leans in his ear.

“Vitya. Emergency meeting. Now.” He turns to see Yakov’s retreating back heading to the hidden door to the diner.

He looks apologetically at the guy in the corner before pushing off his chair and following Yakov, pulling on his overcoat and grabbing his hat.

“What great timing,” he grumbles. The low roar of the club abruptly cuts out as he slips out the door, until all that’s left is a ringing in his ears and the pretty face in the corner burned into his retinas.


	2. Loop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yuuri whispers. “You’ve never had blood on your hands before. We’re all playing these mobs against each other. Whether they’d kill each other on their own or not doesn’t matter. We’re accelerating the violence. It’s still going to be our fault.”
> 
> “Don’t apologize for the Carabosse. They know what they’ve done. You want to protect your family, don’t you? Redeem yourself, and rid Chicago of this poison.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is still heating up, folks! 
> 
> And a brief interlude of Yuuri shamelessly mirin' the bae--I think Victor's beautiful too, Yuuri, it's okay.

What little warmth in the day has long since dissipated, and Victor is blasted by a cold wind when he follows Yakov into the street. Regrettably, the alcohol drains from his veins all too quickly. He knows better than to ask why he’s being dragged outside now, though. Not yet.

They duck into a nondescript van parked round the corner, the driver ferrying them down the borderline. In the distance, he hears shouting and police whistles; a common, if unsettling, occurrence.

Another flight up a narrow stairwell later, Yakov leads Victor into yet another dingy apartment room crowded by the bigger Carabosse leaders. It’s pitch-black inside and stifling with stale air and pipe smoke.

“See that?” Yakov points out the window, across the city to flashlights waving around building edifices and barking dogs. “Our suppliers just got hit.”

“By who? The Crispinos again?” Victor says boredly. “Surprise, surprise.”

Yakov tenses like he’s about to slap him. Victor shuts up. He loosens his shoulders and averts his gaze.

* * *

Katsuki Yuuri has always thought himself an outsider. He’s a scientist at heart, and he’s familiar with the old principle: nothing is certain; there is only evidence that supports or refutes a hypothesis.

So far, he has no reason to believe that he’s wrong. Watching his back is second-nature.

Nobody trusts Yuuri because he’s an outsider, and Yuuri’s an outsider because nobody trusts him. It’s quite the dilemma, not that he can do anything about it. It won’t stop him from trying, though.

Chicago is an enormous city, and it’s easy enough to get lost if one covers their tracks well. Beneath the police’s nose, the gangs sneak around. But beneath the gangs’ noses, rats like Yuuri scuttle among the detritus. He can only hope that light never penetrates those cracks and catches him full in the face; the bosses are well-aware of rats, but a found rat is a dead one.

By day, he is nothing but a glorified grunt, running errands between two equally despicable mobs; by night, he is the lowest rat that plots against the very masters he serves. Yuuri is a man who serves two masters; he is not religious by any means, but he certainly agrees that he cannot defy God’s blessed truths. If Yuuri believed in a God, he certainly wouldn’t waste his time in these parts. Man had strayed far enough from that light, and not even Hell would turn him back.

He ignores the anxiety of logistics, sticks them to the “in” box for a later time, if only to get through the day. Routine is his comfortable normalcy; roll out of bed, tiptoe down the stairs (not an easy task while carrying a bicycle), zoom up and down the North Side and pander to smirking mobsters. If he’s always busy, he reasons, he has no time to stop and consider how pointless life really is.

 _Don’t even continue that train of thought_ , Yuuri thinks. _Watch the road_.

Between the whirring of his bike wheels and the disordered yelling of street hawkers, it’s no problem to let troubling thoughts dissipate. He waves to Mr. Asahi adjusting his shop display behind glass windows, and keeps an eye out for children playing in the street. He’s far too familiar with this route to be startled by the regular dips and cracks in the pavement or nervous of the chaos. Like a rolling stone, he moves forward, hoping that he doesn’t notice what a stupid game he’s playing and eat shit on the road.

He comes to a clear street and lets the wheels fly, pulling his hat on just a little tighter as his coat lapels flap in the wind. The buildings narrow and then diverge, filthy tenements giving into polished businesses. All ostentation, all a pretty farce. The sky is clearer now as he flies down Milwaukee Avenue. The glowing sun sticks up Chicago with its light, tickling the corner of his left eye.

The Serenade Casino, located in the affectionately-called “Little Naples” district, never fails to surprise Yuuri whenever he rolls up to it. It juts out at passers-by with its glowy marble facade, just begging impulsive saps to spend their money. In broad daylight, it could be mistaken as a bank. A bank that only took deposits and never allowed withdrawals, anyway.

Side-stepping onto the sidewalk, he rolls his bicycle into the alleyway and chains it. He’d never say it to Michele’s face, but even being an honorary member of his “family” doesn’t guarantee protection from petty theft. He raps at a concealed back door, steps inside. Behind plush red carpets and richly-gilded walls, the mob moves about its business, ensconced in remote attics.

* * *

He holds his hat politely as Sara plants a chaste kiss on his cheek, stiffening his body like a wooden soldier. Smirking, her bodyguard Emil looks away for a split second. It’s just long enough for Sara to slip her right arm around Yuuri’s side, stick a letter into his pocket.

“Doing well, Yuuri?” She smiles. “I hear Minako’s opening a new bar in Avondale. Wish her luck for us.”

“Thanks, Sara. Of course.” He pauses. He reaches inside his jacket, sliding a packet across the table to her. Emil leans out the window, puffing away on a pipe, not noticing Sara quickly unfolding the papers and stuffing one of them into her purse. “Here’s the end-of-the-week report. The neighborhood bosses on my end see the Russians holding their ground.”

“They won’t be so happy with us for long. Mickey wants to make a move soon.”

“And Celestino approves?”

She snorts. A lock of hair falls in her face. “He doesn’t even know his own mailing address. Don’t rub it in.”

“It’s a shame you couldn’t take his place. _Donna d’onore_ isn’t nearly as nice a title as you deserve.”

Sara smirks. “Trying to flatter me in order to deflect attention? Clever.” she sighs. “Just give me the scoop on the Carabosse.”

“For now, they’re not planning anything offensive against your people. Feltsman and his hired guns are probably biding their time, waiting for something big. Not sure what.” He looks up, seeing her fist prop up her chin boredly. “But,” he continues, “I hear there might be a couple of interesting characters at the Triple Flip tonight. Hoppers, cake-eaters and the like. Might be worth a look, if you don’t already have a...meeting, today.” Yuuri lingers on Sara’s handbag, and the letter stuffed inside. She nods.

“That all?” she asks. He tips his head noncommittally.

Sara rises from the table, reaching across the shiny oak to shake Yuuri’s hand cordially. Emil gives him a stern look from behind Sara. Yuuri squashes down a giggle. It’s so serious, it’s comical.

“See you next week,” he says.

“You’re the bee’s knees, Yuuri,” Sara winks and cocks her head. Her long hair, ironed into shiny curls, sways stiffly. Her smile is warm, but her message is by no means uncertain. _Our business here is finished._

It’s customary to leave the room without turning back, and Yuuri’s never broken tradition. But he doesn’t need to see Sara’s face to know that they’re always watching him as he exits. As if they don’t trust him. They’re right, not to.

The chains clatter from the bike frame, and Yuuri moves Sara’s letter from his back pocket to his jacket. Outside the alley, the sun has risen in earnest and crests the building tops.

* * *

_September, five years ago_

Mari stops by his room one last time. He doesn’t know it then, but it’s the last time he’ll see her for a very long time.

She doesn’t speak; only folding her arms sternly and watching him pack his dress-shirts. He looks away tactfully. His cheeks burn with shame, and he faces away, but he knows that she can see the reddened tips of his ears. Instead, he pointedly focuses on the newly-starched collars of his cheap clothes, some of which were his father’s—he folds them lengthwise with the sleeves pointed like arrows. Collars facing upward from the battered suitcase. They’re both pretending not to notice the question hanging in the air, stewing in the tepid air.

Finally, Mari breaks the silence. “You’re really set on leaving, aren’t you?”

Yuuri continues to pack. She looks down on him, the disapproval evident on her face.

She huffs in irritation. “ _You_ might not have a problem with it, but Mom and Dad can’t take care of the hostel by themselves. They pretend that it’s okay for you to go to college in Chicago, but you know they’re worried sick.”

“I know,” Yuuri says tiredly. “You’ve said this a hundred times, and it’s—”

“Not going to stop you, I know,” she finishes. “But if I can’t keep you from abandoning the family, at least let Mom do it.”

He finishes packing his shirts. (It’s not difficult; he’s only got five to his name.) He pairs his socks, tucking them together and stuffing them into the cracks along the suitcase edges. “I trust Minako. Don’t you?”

“No.”

“Do you trust _me_?”

Mari lets out a bark of laughter, not an ounce of humor in it. “Not at all.”

Socks line the edges of the suitcase. He wraps his ties around his hand, binding them with tie clips and laying them neatly on top. As an afterthought, he throws in a few spare notebooks and pens, where they mix with his toothbrush and razor blades. With finality, he throws the lid over with a resolute _thwack_ and snaps the latches. With his compact packing, the case is pitifully light. The pens clatter around. He gives Mari a rueful look. She raises her eyebrows expectantly.

“They’re worried,” she says softly. “If you get mixed up with any bad crowds, we can’t help you. Yuuko and Takeshi can’t help you. Nobody in Detroit can.”

“We’re Japs, Mari. Nobody’d help us anyway.”

* * *

“The Crispinos are planning another hit on the Carabosse suppliers tonight,” Yuuri says, ducking into Phichit’s dark, cramped office. “Which means, you’ll get the drop on another development in the story.”

Phichit beams. “You’re a dream, Yuuri.” He hurriedly stacks some scattered files into dangerously leaning towers to clear space, motioning Yuuri to sit before his tiny desk. “I have some good news too.”

Yuuri leans in conspiratorially. Phichit extracts a photo from his coat pocket and hands it over. Squinting in the filthy light, Yuuri can barely make out the gleam of sunlight on pale hair and the outline of a shoulder in the overexposed photo. Evidently, it was taken in a hurry, and its subject was moving rather quickly.

“It’s all Seung-Gil was able to get,” Phichit says apologetically. “Victor Nikiforov’s a slippery character. Hopefully it’s enough to identify him and get a lead. I have it on good authority that he’s at the Triple Flip every night. Like clockwork.”

“You’re trying to tail a mob leader? That’s suicidal.”

“Only if we get caught.” Phichit winks. “Besides, how else is the _Scope_ supposed to get a break in this industry? It’s only a matter of time before war breaks out—the people have a right to know about it. Good karma and all that, right?”

Yuuri grimaces. The weight of Sara’s letter in his right pocket and the borrowed Derringer in his left hold him down accusingly. It’s a little too late to barter for heaven, if such a place exists.

Softening, Phichit elbows him gently. “C’mon, live a little. If you keep a low profile, you’ll be fine. Don’t pretend like you don’t want to see Chicago’s most famous juice joint.

“If you don’t want to,” he wheedles, “you don’t even have to off Nikiforov yourself.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yuuri whispers. “You’ve never had blood on your hands before. We’re all playing these mobs against each other. Whether they’d kill each other on their own or not doesn’t matter. We’re accelerating the violence. It’s still going to be our fault.”

“Don’t apologize for the Carabosse. They know what they’ve done. You want to protect your family, don’t you? Redeem yourself, and rid Chicago of this poison.”

They sat in silence. Dust particles drift between them, illuminated by the grayish light from the single window. Across from Yuuri, Phichit’s face is shrouded in darkness. He hears faint shuffling of papers from the other side of the door, probably from Seung-Gil or Otabek.

He can rationalize murder all he wants, but the raw sting of ripping life from a blood-rich throat is one that he cannot disinfect. The sticky, black tar of venous blood gets under his fingernails and he can’t scrub it away. Not with his dirty hands.

* * *

Before he swings back around Phichit’s office in the Loop, he makes a quick stop at a seedy drugstore in Lakeview, where he shoves Sara’s letter into the hands of the burly mustachioed chemist. He’s long suspected that she’s been communicating with someone on the Russian side, but he values his life too much to mention it.

He’s panting with the back-and-forth trips through rush-hour traffic by the time he reaches the dingy rented office that houses the _Chicago Daily Scope_. The lengthening days mean that there’s still plenty of light left, but with longer days come longer work hours. Already the poorer streets look menacing, despite being well-lit. Phichit ushers him inside.

Seung-Gil clamps a cigarette between his teeth as he brushes stray flash powder from his portable camera. Otabek fiddles with his braces while flipping through his notebook, snapping them impatiently. Yuuri can feel the intensity of their nervousness. It reassures him, knowing that they’re still greenhorn reporters under their air of confidence. Like a mother hen, Phichit huddles them up and lays out his meticulously-crafted plan.

“We’re just observing, okay? I can’t stop you from dipping into the juice or ogling the girls, but remember what we’re there for.”

“Yes, Ma,” Otabek drawls. Phichit cuffs him on the back of the head in annoyance.

“You’re all going to be the death of me. I swear, if I die before I get that Pulitzer, I’ll come and haunt you from the grave personally.”

Yuuri laughs nervously. “Better listen to this one, kids.”

* * *

It’s pitiful, but Yuuri’s been to more parties after college than he ever had during it.

The Triple Flip is the second club he’s ever been to. He doesn’t get around much.

In the span of an hour, he’s seen more scantily-clad women (and men)  in one room than all the racy magazines that his parent’s hostel guests have left behind for the cleaners put together. The shimmering costume of the male dancer on stage leaves him both captivated and deeply uncomfortable, the slow hum of euphoniums and brushed cymbals sultry and intimate. It’s so close that he feels like a voyeur, spying on a moment so tender that a single breath dirties the gossamer veil. Somehow, the chaos brings all the strangers there together, if only for a frame in time.

He recognizes Victor Nikiforov immediately, jumping from his blurred memory of a vague photo into something much more real. The glow of incandescent light cups the edges of his silver hair like false sunlight, casting his features into sharp relief. He leans on the bar, chin tipped toward a smiling redheaded flapper girl and returning her bright expression.

There is much more than a crowd of partygoers separating them. But Yuuri is inexplicably, illogically, horribly captivated.

It’s beauty: a gritty, unpolished incarnation of it; but like a dewdrop on the rusty faucet, it is unmistakable. And under the right eye, there is depth. Yuuri sees it in Victor. He sees the pretty redhead flick her head toward the stage, distracted for a second, and Victor’s face fall when she isn’t looking. A slippage of personage, Yuuri recognizes the split-second fatigue as a crack in the mask. Already, Yuuri sees more in Victor than any of the Carabosse do, he’s willing to bet.

He watches the girl drag Victor to the dance floor, her face a beaming sun. Phichit is talking, but his words are drowned by the new swinging song. Dimly, he thinks he should have pointed Victor out to the others. But in time, they would all notice his unapologetic staring at the radiant man, spinning with infinite grace on a floor too small for his presence. His song ends all too early, that confident persona betraying a hint of fatigue. It’s dangerous to look on, but Yuuri’s eyes follow Victor nonetheless.

And then Victor turns in Yuuri’s direction and his face plunged into shadow. He cocks his head in a silent question, a sharp-edged smile lacing his lips. Their eyes meet, but is there anything left to say?

“An easy target,” Yuuri mumbles, as Seung-Gil fidgets with his camera.

The night is young, and he’s not sober enough to regret his interest.

He looks away disappointedly as Victor is inevitably pulled out by large men in crisp suits. Seung-Gil’s camera flashbulb bursts; a single photo of his retreating figure. Another terrible picture.

It’s as if Victor Nikiforov cannot be captured by a camera. Like the portrait of Dorian Gray, perhaps he too hides his shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If people are interested, I'll start posting whatever I've listened to while writing this chapter. I usually do have music playing along and one or two songs are definitely inspirational for me as I write. 
> 
> Chapter 2: [Leonard Cohen - String Reprise / Treaty](https://youtu.be/XbamvzYDnOE)


	3. Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're silly drunks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up, and new characters are introduced! I wonder where the story's gonna go...? (jk, I already know :P)  
> Lots of music references here (I know, I'm a nerd). See if you can spot them.

_Gunfights on North Side: Police Ignoring Gang Violence_

_Chicago, Ill., May 17.—It’s no secret that Chicago has a wild side, but a different kind of trouble is brewing in the Windy City._

_Recently, gang affiliations have been heating up, notably between the Carabosse and Crispino criminal organizations: allegedly involved in bootlegging and illicit gambling, respectively. Police reports have yet to confirm evidence of criminal activity; but then, rumors of corruption have haunted the Chicago Police Department since the Great War. This time, though, rivalries pose a real threat to citizens caught in the crossfire._

_The Chicago Daily Scope’s resources have indicated connections between violent skirmishes between the North and Northwest Sides and current bootlegging operations, ostensibly that of the Carabosse gang. Insiders have revealed that these recent gunfights are the result of the Crispinos’ goal to usurp Chicago’s illegal liquor business from under its rival, the Carabosse. As per tradition, such offensive maneuvers are typically led by a high-ranking Mafia official, such as an underboss. No fatalities have been reported; however, fighting is expected to worsen in the coming weeks. As police are suspected to be affiliated with the Crispino organization, little to no interference in the Crispinos’ aggressive movements is likely._

_Chicagoans living in the Avondale, Hermosa, Logan Square and Irving Park neighborhoods are advised to take extra precaution while commuting to work or school. It is recommended that you do not leave your home after nightfall. Police presence is expected to be sparse, if not absent. Avoid areas frequented by partygoers, as raids on speakeasies (predominantly controlled by Carabosse leaders) will increase. Future issues of the Chicago Daily Scope will provide exclusive coverage of this developing story._

 

“How about that, Yuuri?” Phichit says, tearing the draft off his battered typewriter. “Nothing too compromising, I hope?”

He takes Phichit’s typed paper and gives it a once-over critically.

“It’s good,” he finally says.

“Wonderful!” Phichit chirps. Yuuri hands the draft back to him. Stretching and cracking his knuckles, Phichit enthusiastically begins typing the final copy. “Just imagine, our journalism toppling the biggest criminal organizations in the city! We’ll be well on our way to a Pulitzer.” Yuuri shrugs noncommittally. “With your help, of course.”

“Why take this risk?” Seung-Gil mumbles, eyes glued to the tiny letters in the printing press that he’s setting. “Is this article really worth dying for?”

“Yes,” Yuuri replies. “It’s either my family or me. I’ll gladly take the risk if it means keeping them safe.”

“So you’re trying to bring down the whole Crispino group, just to get your folks off their blacklist? Seems a little excessive.”

“It’s not just that,” he retorts. “Give me one good piece of evidence that suggests that the Crispinos are doing more good to Chicago than harm. I doubt having so many employees negates that fact that they’re slinging guns in neighborhoods.”

Seung-Gil nods thoughtfully. “Altruistic, if slightly foolish. I don’t disagree.”

“You’re trying to cover for your mistakes,” Otabek interrupts, looking up from his list of classifieds. “You regret falling in with that crowd, don’t you?”

“What are you, a psychoanalyst?” He swings around stiffly, hiding his irritated expression.

“Don’t interrogate the sources,” Phichit scolds. “Don’t mind them, Yuuri,” he says apologetically. “Otabek, shouldn’t you be meeting up with someone about the Triple Flip? I thought you said you had an informant of your own.”

“I do,” Otabek replies casually.

Phichit raises his eyebrows. “So?”

“ _So_ , that’s confidential.” Defensive, Otabek drops the subject. Phichit winks at Yuuri surreptitiously, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

“If you don’t need anything else, I’d best be heading out,” Yuuri says, slipping on his hat. Already, it’s covered with a fine film of dust that seems to blanket every inch of the tiny office.

“Thanks for the help, Yuuri. I knew I could count on you.” Phichit slides the cylinder back with a sharp _clack_. “You’ll be seeing the  _Scope_ on the street by tomorrow.”

With a thin smile, Yuuri wheels his bike out of the office into the night, much blacker than it was from behind the little filthy windows. The glass rattles in the door’s panes as it shuts.

“By _tomorrow_?” Seung-Gil sputters.

“Uh-huh,” replies Phichit. “Now get a move on, you two.”

* * *

Yuuri goes where his legs take him. They spin the pedals in a whir, blurring North Milwaukee Avenue’s long rows of chain stores and diners. A pit of dread sits in his gut, eating at his insides. He may well die tomorrow, when the fallout hits.

They’ll find him either way, but he’d rather run free while he still can.

A card folded in his pocket, a ticket to basements, beer, blue eyes. He shows it to the Russian bouncer, who steps aside curtly.

He tells himself that he’s simply looking for information. It’s a lie, of course.

As much as Michele despises them, their alcohol is decent. He might never drink sake again; whiskey might do, after the first few. The music wraps its smoky arms around him, warm with the heat of crowded bodies and illegal booze.

Mari used to say that he got mean when he got drunk. It only made him think—think about his shitty life and his shitty bosses. Everything was his own fault in some way, but he had the decency to correct his mistakes. Why not? Scrambled like a radio between stations, Yuuri’s brain leapfrogs at a pace too quick for his sluggish legs.

Such a pretty mobster, icy silver and sapphire, he thinks. Too pretty for this place.

* * *

He’d only started this job a week ago; he thought he had a longer trial period of leniency from his boss.

Instead, he’s only just sat down at his (old, scuffed, but _his_ ) desk when his captain storms in, slapping a newspaper down and glaring at him with beady eyes.

Chicago really is a depressing place.

“‘Police Ignoring Gang Violence’”, the old man hisses, micro-droplets of spittle flying off his toothbrush-bristle mustache. He refrains from wiping the spit off his face, but not from involuntarily twitching at the germs multiplying on his cheek. Hesitantly, he picks up the newspaper and reads the article under the title blurb.

“An article from a seedy little newspaper called the _Chicago Daily Scope_. But this seedy little newspaper is in the hands of half the North side right now, and will _undoubtedly_ be all over Chicago by tomorrow.” He can feel the anger and sweat radiating from the captain’s rotund figure. “I expected more from you, J.J.”

J.J. smiles falsely, pasting what he hopes is a placating expression on his face. “All due respect, sir,” he says politely, “I’ve only been head of this department for a week.”

“That’s no excuse.” He leers, sitting on his haunches. It reminds him of a wild hog eyeing a particularly juicy peach. “I told you not to interfere with the mobsters, _not_ sit on your hands and make us look like incompetent fools.”

“So what _should_ I say?” He shoots back. He puts on a pompous, deep voice and waves the paper around. “‘As Lieutenant of the CPD’s Organized Crime Department, I resolve to put an end to this abhorrent activity!’ Nobody’d believe it. _I_ wouldn’t believe it myself.” Bracing his arms against his chair, he pushes himself backwards and distances himself. “I sense a conflict of interest here, Captain—sir. I am obligated to uphold the law, yet only in the public eye. All due respect, _sir_ , I cannot possibly parse through these contradicting motivations.”

His ruddy, pock-marked face hardens menacingly. He narrows his eyes. “Abhorrent or not, your inability to contain these gangsters reflects poorly on all of us. And I won’t protect you the way your friends in Montreal tried to. I gave you those rookies for a reason—they’re eager, like you. Use them.” He hefts his heavy frame away from the desk.

“It’s a stain on our reputation,” he calls as he leaves. “Why don’t you fix it, ‘J.J.-style’? You seem to be quite fond of doing things _your_ way.”

J.J. seethes for a while, silent and white-faced in the still-quiet office. Then, he gets up and peeks out the door, down the row of the rookies’ desks.

“Leo! Guang-Hong!” He calls. Almost immediately, two young police officers trot up, saluting dutifully. J.J. waves them away impatiently. “I’ve got a job for you two,” he says. “It’s highest-priority.” They perk up, eyes brightening expectantly.

He hands Leo the newspaper given to him by his boss.

“Find out what you can about this paper. The _Chicago Daily Scope_. I need to know where they’re getting their information.”

“Right away, sir,” Guang-Hong replies, with a sunny smile. He pulls Leo along by his sleeve as they scurry off. J.J. smiles, just slightly. Rookies, with their greenhorn can-do attitudes. It isn’t unlike himself, a few years ago and a thousand miles away.

The memory is shaken away as quickly as it had come. He neatly turns around and marches back into his office, where he sits down and begins to pen the department’s press release.

* * *

“At least they spelled our name right,” Victor jokes. “The _Morning Herald_ called us the ‘Carbosses’.” A thin curl of smoke twines its way from the cherry end of his cigarette. His feet are propped up on the dining room table casually, but his head feels like shit. Makkachin sprawls under the table, thumping his tail contentedly against the tile.

Mila frowns. “ _That’s_ all you care about?” She sips at her coffee cup and winces. “Needs whiskey.” Victor laughs.

“Drinking again, at this hour? ” He worries his lip as he rereads the article. “Anyway, the biggest problem is the mole. Not so much for us, but for the Crispinos.”

It’s true enough; spies are to be expected, so anything they aren’t prepared to leak to the press isn’t accessible to their clientele. Not impossible for someone to slip through the cracks, though. His old regiment was well-known for its tunnel rats in France.

“We don’t know how much they’ve found,” Mila points out. “They could know more about us, but aren’t saying anything about it now.”

A corner of the newspaper droops over forlornly. Makkachin yawns shrilly.

“Or they don’t know anything,” he says evenly. “It doesn’t take a gumshoe to figure out what’s been going on between our people and theirs. Just that most newspapers don’t have the gall to stick their nose in places where it doesn’t belong.”

“I guess.”

“I’ve never even heard of this paper before, and yet it’s spread across the city like syphilis. I gotta admit, they’ve got some amazing distribution.”

The newspaper flops over even further, and his cigarette burns a hole in the paper. “Shit,” he mutters, stubbing it out in the ashtray. Mila giggles as Makkachin pokes his head up in confusion.

“Serves you right, wasting a perfectly good smoke.”

Smothering the smoking bits of newspaper, he glares at her. She’s right, but he doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction. He folds the newspaper haphazardly, tossing it aside and standing up from the table. The room spins and he pushes away the black spots eating the edges of his vision.

“Alright, alright,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You done with that coffee? Let’s go.” She shrugs on her jacket and dons her hat, setting the dishes in the sink. Victor follows suit, rummaging in his coat pocket for the car keys.

“You know, you don’t have to drive me to the chemist. I’m a big girl who can drive herself.”

He grins. “It’s Alexei’s day off: someone has to be the driver. Anyway, how  _else_ am I  supposed to meet your girl? Or what, you just plan on being penpals?” Mila blushes deep red.

“It’s just the pharmacy, Vitya.”

“Oh really? Didn’t realize it converted to a post office. I have my ways, you know.”

She elbows him in the side. “Quit your teasing.” Storming past him, she throws open the front door and jogs out to the car. Makkachin waits patiently and follows Victor outside, leaping into the backseat.

He slides into the driver’s seat, Mila pointedly facing away from him with her arms crossed. “I’m hurt, Mila,” he whines. “To think that you wouldn’t tell me about your first girlfriend!”

“I’m eighteen, Victor. I can take care of myself.”

“I know.” The car rumbles as they mosey their way down the street, crowded with people in the early afternoon air. For a while, they are silent.

Finally, Victor talks. “What’s she like?”

Mila hesitates; he’s unsure whether she’s thinking or still angry. “Pretty. Strong.”

“Not much of an artist, are you?”

It’s quiet again. “She’s smart. Good with a gun, too.”

“Sounds clever and deadly. My kind of woman.”

She snorts. “No woman is your kind of woman, Victor.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he grins. “Your mother is quite an amazing person.” Mila rolls her eyes.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” They jolt to a stop, and Victor kills the engine.

“Know what?” He says innocently. “Don’t you have some lady things to pick up?” She gets out of the car with a huff, disappearing into the grimy chemist’s shop. He reaches behind the seat and strokes Makkachin’s fur.

Gripping the top of the steering wheel with both hands, he rests his forehead on them to ward off the ache. All too often, it’s like this: slogging through the day, getting zozzled to forget, regretting it the day after. Over and over again; slow death, unlike the quick ones he used to know. He doesn’t know which way he prefers to die.

Maybe he’ll go back to the speakeasy.

* * *

_September, five years ago_

It’s a lovely day, dirt piled on gravel roads and dry grass brushing their knees.

He could pass for an American boy, foreign in that French countryside with his clean English and bold comrades, anonymous under his helmet and seventy-pound pack. They move together in a straggling line, putting one foot in front of the other. An American comb, toothing Saint-Mihiel for German lice.

They laugh, singing baudy ditties about big-busted girls and backcountry boys. United in their khaki fatigues in a strange land, bridged like they never would be back home. The metal of his helmet is fit to burn from the rare sunlight and his elbows ache. Rifle in hand, so light, yet so heavy.

“You ready, Nicky?” Someone calls from his right. He can’t see his face, cast in shadow by sun behind his back.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he replies. His dumb tongue slides clumsily, smoothing down his syllables into something American, something familiar, something worth fighting for. To an American, another red-white-and-blue-blood is worth dying for, not a Red Russian. When even his name is a stain on his character, why not pretend some more?

A wind shifts and the wheaten fields wave beneath. Bathed in golden light like a painting. The horses snort, pointed ears flicking to and fro as their tails sway in the breeze. The sun’s so bright, it hurts his eyes; childishly, he wishes for snow. (He’ll get rain instead; the good weather won’t last another hour.)

They stop in the field, some official or other waving his arm and directing the men. Fractured into groups, they close the line and march on. Invisible crickets hum under their heavy feet traipsing through tall sedges and wheat-grass. Cannons boom ominously from miles off; whether it’s by their men or the Huns is impossible to say. War always seems to sound the same, no matter how different the belligerents are. Someone cracks a joke about the French; they laugh genuinely, not yet war-hardened and shattered. They are light-hearted.

Droves of drab Germans flee in their push onward, some more readily than others. Hymnals echo in the fading sun, punctuated by gunshots and gleaming metal. Gunpowder flowers in the tepid air. It stains his hands, but it’s the least of his worries. Triumphant boys with dirt on their cheeks, playing war with the neighbor’s kids as they scream their shrill battle cries. Victor grew up in _les champs francais_ , a boy in the morning and a man by night.

They go out again in the night, exhausted and exhilarated. Specks of blood dot his bayonet and he scrapes them away with his fingernail. His lungs are gritty with the smoke of cigarettes and spent shells. Someone whistles “Moonlight Bay” as the waxing moon glints off their doughboy helmets, hidden behind cotton clouds. Life thrums hidden, frogs peeping and late birds flitting across the gray sky. He and his small patrol, the most unlikely of friends, sinking in mud up to their knees. A faraway time, a dreamscape that ends where the sun sets. Jaunty-eyed and beatific in his uniformed youth, not quite yet a crass, snide shell in desperate need of the big sleep.

It’s a lovely day.

* * *

 He gets more than a little drunk that night, watery vodka flowing through his veins and dulling his senses. Christophe wavers on stage, or is it his eyes deceiving him? They thrum together, rhythm and blues (yellows, reds) melting into an incoherent mess of cheap liquor. A long line of shots, a champagne flute sneaking in and tickling his throat.

But time leaks from the hourglass, pouring in a viscous mix at his feet as it slows. The dark-haired man (still boyish, really), giving him those admiring eyes. He’s charmed.

“You new here?” Victor slurs, eyeing his unfamiliar figure.

“No,” he replies, giggling childishly. It’s adorable.

Georgi slides another scotch to Victor. He sweeps it up and toasts the bartender sleepily. “I’m Victor,” he says.

“I know.” His round cheeks are rosy red, blooms on his pale face with his mess of black hair. Is it too early in the night to say he’s in love? “Katsuki Yuuri. Or Yuuri Katsuki, as they say in American. Or in the West. English.” He cracks up laughing.

“Hey, that’s my kid brother’s name,” Victor says suddenly. “I guess I’ll have to give him a nickname. You’re cuter than him, so you get to keep yours.”

Yuuri turns a deep red and mutters something in Japanese. “You’re drunk,” he says.

“So are you!”

He nods distractedly, as if deep in thought. “I guess.” They both probably look absurd, slouching in their stools and drawling like babies. But Victor’s good at ignoring things, even without several drinks muddling his senses.

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of Yuuri’s ear. “Wanna get out of here?” He says in a low voice. Yuuri’s neck smells like cold air and aftershave.

“Where?”

Victor takes Yuuri’s hand, pulling him off the chair and leading him away from the lounge. They stumble occasionally, giggling drunkenly like teenagers in love. They swing behind the bar, feeling their way through a narrow hallway and out through a back entrance. Yuuri’s tie, loosened slightly, tickles Victor’s back. His hand is warm, calloused.

Night engulfs them in the street, swallowing them whole. They’re warm, radiating alcoholic heat in the sinking air. He’d lead them home if he could, if he remembered where it was, if he could drive. He flattens his back against the corner of a building, at the edge of the speakeasy alley. Confused, Yuuri follows suit. Victor surreptitiously (as much as he can in this state, anyway) peers round the corner. It’s dark.

“What are you doing?” Yuuri says.

“No idea,” he laughs. He’s way too drunk for this.

“You disappoint me.”

“Okay, okay—what about this?” Victor grabs Yuuri by the jacket lapels and plants a sloppy kiss on his lips. Yuuri hesitates for a moment before eagerly kissing back, clumsily. Victor laughs from the corner of his mouth, tasting a long chain of whiskey on Yuuri’s tongue. They’re stupid, giggling like tipsy kids, stealing kisses in a back alley. The booze loosens their inhibitions, and in that moment Yuuri is not a double-crossing interloper, nor is Victor a shell-shocked mobster. They are humans; irresponsible and impulsive ones, yes, but humans nonetheless.

Gunshots pop off a few blocks away, chased by wailing police sirens. Yelling, in Russian in Italian and in the universal language of pain. “Shit,” Victor hisses, pulling away.

“Victor?” Yuri leans out the speakeasy door, looking uncharacteristically shaken, and so much like the fifteen-year-old he is. “You’d better take care of this,” he says gruffly. He glares at Yuuri suspiciously, but says nothing before he slams the door.

“Fuck,” Victor curses. He pats his coat pockets, and looks up, as if realizing Yuuri is there for the first time. He touches Yuuri’s arm gently, eyes apologetic. “I’ll see you round, hopefully?” In the dim light remaining his eyes still glow bright.

“Sure,” Yuuri says. “You’re so pretty, I couldn’t forget you.”

It’s embarrassing how happy Victor looks, as if it’s the first time he’s ever been complimented. “Thank you.”

Regretfully, Victor pushes off the wall and moves around Yuuri, walking towards the door with one hand on the brick wall. He looks back at Yuuri one more time, bathed in yellow light from the open door. Yuuri waves, then rounds the corner and jogs back to his bike tipsily. His wet mouth tastes like scotch, and Victor’s cologne lingers like a pleasant memory.

He’ll regret it in the morning, but his heart is light as a feather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someday I'll be serious, I promise...just not today. Thanks for reading!


	4. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he closes his eyes, the gunshots popping off could be fireworks. Not that it helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 4th of July! (And a belated Canada Day). 
> 
> This chapter is a bit shorter than the others; we're at an awkward place between plot points and I feel like I've procrastinated long enough. If this chapter's ending seems abrupt, that's because it is. I guess a shorter chapter is better than none at all, but I plan on compensating for that next time. It also didn't help that there were fireworks going off all through my writing this. My poor doggo was shook.
> 
> So here's a slightly-depressing chapter that establishes more background. I think there will be fewer flashbacks after this.

_October, five years ago_

The sun-kissed summer boys wither in the fall, their youth as fragile as browned leaves quivering in the wind. Coils of bodies line the trench walls, each as unassuming as the other in gray uniform. It is morning, but there is no sun to be seen in the heavy fog. They stew in a gray sludge; even if Victor could see over the trench wall, he doubts the view up there would be any different from where they sit. The air tastes wet with approaching rain and the ground squelches beneath their boots. Puddles of mud pool the craters in no man’s land.

Despite all the army’s attempts to strip their individuality, they still know their comrades’ subtleties and identify them by paltry landmarks. To his left, Pilchard fiddles with the wedding ring on his thin finger, pushing up his rounded glasses with the back of his hand. They called him Pill, both as a play on his name and a jab at his quiet nature. The shape of his nose reminded Victor of his mother’s, straight and severe. Brzezinski, a raucous man with ruddy cheeks and baby-blue eyes, is uncharacteristically quiet; he drums his fingers in a nervous pattern along his rifle, avoiding eye contact. So many boys, just like him: Beilke, Cousins, Holman, Abel, Rosewicz, et al. Hands shaking and eyes downcast. Backs to the dirty trench wall, ready to die but not ready to acknowledge it. Victor pities them.

Victor has always had a feeling that he’d die painfully, violently. It’s just the way life is; the mob asked for nothing less. He just never thought he’d be buried in a French forest, go everywhere in a pink mist instead of going to hell where he belonged. _C’est la vie_ , he guesses.

Somewhere up the line, an officer orders them to don their masks. Fumbling, they move to obey, pulling the loose masks over their faces and adjusting the clunky respirators strapped to their chests. He feels like choking in the stale air. (It’ll be his only air in a few minutes.)

Lieutenant Mathies dirties his gloves on the walls, clambering up to the periscope on steps that more resembled rock faces than stairs. Hand signals fly between the sections. Funny how a flick of the wrist can sent a legion of men to their deaths. The pattering of rain picks up now, sending waves of white noise to cover up the silence. A heavy raindrop _plink_ s onto Victor’s helmet. He feels it running down the curved dome, tilts his head forward to send it over the lip. It hangs there, quivering. Ready to fall.

“ _Forward!_ ” The lieutenant screams, pistol in hand and waving them ahead. The men around Victor freeze in silent war cries, scurrying as quickly as they can over the sodden parapets. Around him, the soldiers utter a collective war cry. He remains silent, though; it would do no good to add to the chaos.

Stamped down by the boots of dozens, Victor hefts himself over the trench’s edge and stands on unsteady legs. Blindly, he follows, charging after men, soon-to-be-dead and surviving, and praying that he’s of the latter. He can barely see his feet, between the mist and the mask.

In the distance, the Argonne forest looms, just a splotch of dark-gray in a sea of lighter grays. If he closes his eyes, the gunshots popping off could be fireworks. Not that it helps.

* * *

Caps crack from streets away. “Shit,” Victor hisses. Why now?

The car hits a pothole; ducked down to avoid stray bullets, Victor’s already-fuzzy head wobbles on its axis. Adrenaline, however, is making short work of the alcohol’s effects. With unsteady hands he chambers his revolver, slipping the last bullet into the empty chamber. No Russian Roulette tonight. No half-measures. His left hand aches for the familiar weight of the Remington, punchy and short. He generally brings that along when he’s expecting a shootout, though.

He stumbles out at the back door of a friendly building; although, it’s anything but friendly at the moment, every shot ringing in his skull. Engines roar and sirens wail. He’d be holed up in a safer place if this were a regular gunfight, but the presence of the coppers complicates matters exponentially.

As best as his soggy brain can manage he climbs up the stairs ( _no, please not the stairs_ ), dodging fighters cradling shotguns flying down. “Where’s Lilia?” He asks one, who wordlessly jerks his elbows backward to gesture at the floors above.

Lilia is scary during times like these; calm and collected with tempered-steel eyes and a rigid posture that suggest a military lifestyle. The room matches her Spartan principles, cleared of all furniture in favor of unobstructed views from the windows. She sends Victor a glare as soon as she sees him, eyebrow cocked in a “ _whose bright idea was this?_ ” expression.

“We are holding our ground as it is,” she says in Russian, “but the police―”

“Keep reserves at the ready at least three blocks away from the scene,” Victor interrupts. “And remove everyone away from the vicinity. We can’t afford to have any of our men detained.”

“Let me guess,” she says dryly, “our friends in the blue decided to open their eyes tonight?”

“Unfortunately.”

“And the Italians? We could trap them there.”

He pauses, but shakes his head. “No close-range encounters. If we had sharpshooters, maybe we could stage some of them above, have them...incapacitate any standbys so the cops can take them alive. Or stop the trucks from lifting our shit, if they haven’t already split.”

“No way to differentiate between friends and enemies,” she points out. “The risk is diminished on our end if we remove our men from close range, but there is no guarantee that wanderers will not get caught in the crossfire.”

A heavy silence hangs in the air, broken up by shouting and popping guns. The sirens are getting closer. Victor pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath.

“Do it. We’ll write that off as collateral damage,” he finally says.

To her credit, Lilia shows no sign of disapproval. Merely inclining her head, she barks short commands to her scouts, who scurry off to relay orders. “They won’t need to go far,” she says to no one in particular.

“Get out of here while you can, Lilia,” Victor sighs. “You’re too valuable to be snagged.”

“All corpses have the same value,” she replies gravely. “Do not underestimate yourself.” A determined set in her eyes, she steps past Victor and leaves for the stairwell, no doubt on the way to commandeer more forces.

Exhausted, Victor sinks to the floor against the wall. His revolver is trained at the stairs, to catch the unfriendlies crawling up the building. If there are any left. The remaining panicked rush has slowed to a trickle, letting the drinks retake their grip.

He cannot stay long, though. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings, but they will soon become death’s property if they linger. The walls shrink and pull back as he hurtles down the narrow flights; he winces. Hearing shouts emanating from the floors below, he ducks out a window and feels his way down the fire escape. It shudders and sways and he hates having to catch his balance every five steps. Someday they’ll have enough money to replace all of them with lifts.

The ground is comforting, but finding himself round the corner from the car is less so. Steeling himself, he crouches and makes a break for it, flattening himself against the wall and staying carefully out of sight. Now the sirens are joined by whistles and the mass clattering of shoes on the pavement, with sprays of gunfire in between. A stray one ricochets off a garbage can and buries itself in the wall three feet from Victor’s torso. Sadly, it doesn’t startle him. He’s a safe distance from the epicenter of the skirmish, though, and makes it back without too much trouble.

Sounds of gunshots stick in his head well into the night, but he can no longer sort them into times. It all bends together in a slurry of faces and hazes of battle.

* * *

_October, five years ago_

Victor supposes that they’re all the same in the military; same “Anytown, USA” childhoods, same social cliques, same general naïveté. But where war is concerned, Victor isn’t very much like his comrades at all. In fact, he may be the only one with true experience of desperate combat.

The fog is meant to cloak them from their enemies, but all things considered, the Germans are shooting randomly just as they would in broad daylight. Machine guns were never known for their accuracy, and seeing their targets offers but a marginal advantage. Gas is much the same.

With calmness born from years of experience, he crouches as he charges, weaving back and forth to stay a moving target. Unlucky soldiers around him stiffen like ragdolls as lead punctures their soft tissue, collapsing quietly with a gulp. Others scream horribly, piercing the air with their shrieks. The stragglers keep the line moving up, charging forward resolutely even as their friends fall over dead and form layers beneath their feet.

Whole piles of bodies lay scattered about, in open areas with little protection from the hail of bullets. Nowhere else to go, Victor tucks his rifle against his chest and scrambles across them, climbing steps of limbs on stairs of flesh ( _no more stairs, please_ ) and whispering “oh God” in horror when some of them moan under his boots. Others roll off, falling into the muddy holes and making terrific splashes, sinking like bleeding stones.

“I want to go home!” Someone screams, off to Victor’s right. He hears snatches of names, prayers, variations of “no” and “God” as if it will save them. But Victor knows that his only salvation are his legs and his bullets. If both of those stayed in working order, then maybe he’d stand a chance.

His stomach drops as he feels the battleground lighten, the sun emerging to ruin their day and strip their pathetic cover. Shrinking, he ducks closer to the ground, trying to sidestep unidentifiable bodies with masks covering their faces and dull uniforms.

A canister explodes too close to him for comfort. He dodges it, avoiding gas that mixes with the air and would stick to his clothes if he isn’t careful. The gunfire crests a fever pitch as they lay more and more exposed to shooters’ eyes. The steady rain of corpses turns into a downpour as calculated sweeps of bullets rip through the lines. His skin prickles but he has no time to think. He only sees the friendly shapes of fellow survivors making for the trees, and follows.

Victor might be alone in his experience of combat, but never before has he felt so helpless.

* * *

 Yuuri wakes up with a splitting headache and the sour taste of leftover whiskey on his breath. The alarm clock is a drill diving into his skull, and he grumbles as he reaches to shut it off. Closing his eyes to ward off the black spots eating the edges of his vision, he swings out of bed. A familiar cologne still lingers at his wrist; a blurry but unmistakable memory of last night.

It is troubling: Yuuri’s attraction is undeniable, but even _without_ social norms, the rivalry between Yuuri’s allies and Victor’s surely forbids any further interaction. And yet, Yuuri cannot give up. Victor Nikiforov is beautiful, but somehow broken; he wants to reach out and warm his icy façade, kiss away all the wounds.

Even the journey to Lakeview is not enough to chase away the irritating memory of Victor’s lips on his neck, the way the fabric of his suit crinkled in Yuuri’s hands. The druggist slips him the letter of Sara’s paramour with the gift of a coin and he tucks it into his jacket absentmindedly. Its corner digs into his ribs, much like Victor’s tipsy, heart-shaped smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't drink and drive, kids.
> 
> Also, I hope I haven't been completely inaccurate with the battle scenes. All I have to work with are some Wikipedia entries and cross-references. So apologies in advance if this seems completely awkward.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/suggestions are greatly appreciated!


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